


love, and other unspoken truths

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Lonely BS, Fluff, Good Cows (The Magnus Archives), Light Angst, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), which definitely ups the angst level
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: It’s a bit strange, Martin thinks. How easy it is to say the word ‘love,’ sometimes. At least, it had been easy then, when the fog had wrapped its cold tendrils through his heart andsqueezed. Now, it's gotten a lot harder.Martin Blackwood’s exploration of the many facets of the word ‘love’ and its relation to Jonathan Sims.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 104
Collections: The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge





	love, and other unspoken truths

**Author's Note:**

> The week 6 work for the Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge! Information on the challenge can be found [here](https://magnus-mailday.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> Realized I hadn't written a Scottish safehouse fic yet and had to rectify that fact immediately. Featuring my softest jonmartin yet.

It’s a bit strange, Martin thinks, sitting in the cramped seat of a train that winds through the English countryside—soon to be Scottish countryside. How easy it is to say the word ‘love,’ sometimes. He’s never been one to _say_ it; he prefers to show affection through actions, through cups of tea pressed into waiting hands and favors done without a thought of repayment and smiles offered even when none are given in return. He tries, of course. The words dance on the edge of his tongue and he wants to say them, to see if faces light up in return, if the words are repeated back like a reverent echo. But he just smiles instead and offers up another act of service.

Perhaps it’s not easy at all, then. To say it. But it had been easy then, in the curling fog and the cold that cut him to the bone, sending his mind fuzzy and adrift. Maybe that was it; so far removed from himself, without that lingering fear of rejection, the words just… slipped out. He’d meant them, of course. At least, he thinks so. It’s hard to tell any more. He’s… he’s just so numb, still.

Jon places a hand on the back of Martin’s, and he startles slightly. It’s so _warm_ , and he feels a bit of that warmth seep into his chest, chasing away a few tendrils of fog. “Don’t think about it,” Jon says, voice touched with concern, and Martin knows he can feel it, too. The shreds of the Lonely, still lacing through his entire being like vines.

He turns his hand over and threads his fingers with Jon’s. _I love you_ , it says. But the words evade Martin yet again. Maybe that place consumed them, and he’ll never be able to say them again.

He squeezes, and Jon says, “I know.”

The train sways gently, and Martin chases the feeling of warmth as long as it will allow him to.

* * *

It’s quiet, in the cottage. They’re far enough removed from the rest of civilization that the only sounds bleeding through the weathered wood are the whistling of the wind through the hills and the occasional moos of the Highland cattle that send Martin grinning from ear to ear. He convinces one to come close enough with a handful of clover that he can run a gentle hand over its shaggy fur. It accepts his gift with passive approval, and he runs his hands over the side of its neck as it chews.

Jon obligingly snaps a few pictures with Martin’s phone, the corners of his mouth attempting to fight back a smile and failing. Martin guides Jon’s hand onto the cow, and the soft little sound Jon makes when his fingers make contact sends Martin’s heart spinning off into the cool morning air.

He could have said it then. _I love you._

He takes a picture of Jon, despite Jon’s half-hearted protests, and presses a light kiss to the back of Jon’s hand. Jon flushes, and Martin keeps hold of his hand, rubbing small circles into his palm. It really would be perfect, he thinks. To say it, to hear the words mix with the gentle hum of crickets and the thumping of his own heart.

Jon places a hand on the side of Martin’s face, tentatively, a scarred thumb rubbing gently against Martin’s cheekbone. “Let’s go home,” he says. His fingers leave behind a tingling warmth that remains long after they’ve returned to the cottage, despite the chill of the setting sun.

* * *

They’ve taken to sharing a bed. There’s a spare, of course, tucked away in the back corner of the cottage and covered with a thin film of dust indicating years of dormancy, but Jon had shut the door when they’d arrived and placed Martin’s clothing in the same room as his. Like it wasn’t even an option, _not_ sharing a bed.

It had burned a bit, at first. Being so close, after so long of holding Jon at arm’s length, or even further if he could manage it. They didn’t sleep much, the first few nights. Martin couldn’t relax with the constant _closeness_ bubbling under his skin, and Jon’s dreams rarely offered him more than a few hours of restful sleep. If you could call reliving other people’s horrors _restful_ , that is.

Tonight is much the same. The heat has reduced to a gentle simmer, now, and Martin has Jon tucked into his side, Jon’s messy curls tickling his nose as he buries his face into Martin’s shoulder. Neither of them are asleep. It’s for no particular reason, and for every reason altogether. You can only avoid thinking about every horrible thing that’s happened to you for so long, after all, and the night tends to draw out the less desirable moments of the past few months, like darkness calling darkness.

Martin only realizes he’s shivering when Jon curls tighter into him, pressing a light kiss to Martin’s temple. “It’s okay,” Jon whispers. “We’re safe now. You’re safe now.”

It’s not okay. It never has been, and it probably never will be. But Martin still presses a soft return kiss to the crown of Jon’s head, smelling the lavender shampoo that they’d found stashed in the bathroom cabinets, and says, “Yeah.” He could say it now, probably. It’s the only thing keeping him together, really. Keeping him from sinking back into the cold that welcomes him, that fits so neatly within his very self that he often wonders whether he can truly be whole without it.

But he doesn’t feel incomplete. He feels _right._

_I love you._

The silence is a comfortable weight on Martin’s chest, and he slips easily into sleep.

* * *

Martin misses their first kiss.

It’s not that he’s not _there_ for it—of course he is. That’s rather how it works. It just doesn’t _feel_ like their first kiss, so he misses it. It’s just a light press of lips when Martin passes Jon a cup of chamomile tea as golden twilight falls through the window. Then, they sit and turn on one of the three movies Martin picked up from the store in town, and Jon curls into Martin’s side, and they pass the night in comfortable silence.

It’s not until their fifth kiss—a deeper, more _intentional_ thing after Martin settles down on the couch next Jon, when Jon turns Martin’s head with a hand on his cheek and _kisses_ him—that Martin realizes. It just feels so _easy._ So natural. Like it had always been a part of Martin’s life and not the thing he’d wanted for _years_.

Martin gasps against Jon’s lips, and the corners of Jon’s mouth pull into a smile. “Took you long enough,” he says, just enough teasing in his voice that Martin’s cheeks go red.

“I- it’s not my fault!” Martin says, lips folding into a small pout. “It’s just…” He flounders for the words—the way to convey to Jon that being with him is effortless, in a way that it hadn’t been just a few weeks ago. That being here, with him, makes everything just _fit_ , more fully than the fog ever did, filling those empty places within him that had once been tendrils of icy cold grey. That he _loves_ him, and that he has for so, so long. That it’s become second nature by this point. “It’s just _you_ ,” he settles on finally.

Jon flushes slightly, his eyes darting to focus on the collar of Martin’s shirt. “I’m… I’m just _me_ ,” he says quietly. Like that isn’t _everything._

“Yeah,” Martin says, his hands finding Jon’s face and tilting his head up gently, so his eyes meet Martin’s. His heart is so full it might be bursting, and he has so much to say, so many words wanting to spill over like a tumbling waterfall of praise and affection and tenderness that he’s had to suppress for so long. All that he can manage is another, “Yeah.” And then he pulls Jon in for another kiss, and he thinks _this_ might be their first kiss, really. It’s warm and electrifying and lovely and _safe._

He begins to consider that maybe he doesn’t have to say it. That Jon knows. But he also thinks that he wants to. Someday. Until then, he just _kisses_ , and he hopes that that’s enough.

* * *

They talk about everything. Well, not everything, maybe. They don’t talk about the Institute much, or the fears—as much as they can manage, that is. The pile of statements Jon grabbed from his flat is thinning, and Martin knows they’ll have to make a call soon. But _soon_ is not _now_ , so for now, they talk. They talk about their favorite foods and favorite movies and favorite animals—all simple, mundane things, but things they never had time for before.

Jon likes raspberries, and every true crime documentary he can get his hands on, and cats (especially the ones with long, soft fur that he can card his fingers through). Martin loves him more for every answered question. Though he doesn’t say it.

They talk about what they’ll do tomorrow. (Walk to that little river Martin had found last week; read one of Daisy’s cheesy murder mystery books out loud with equally as cheesy voices.) They talk about what they’ll do in a month. (Look for work in town; the bakery’s hiring, and there’s a primary school that’s losing a teacher at the end of the year, even though Jon wrinkles his nose at the mention of children.) They talk about what they’ll do in a year. (It doesn’t matter. But it’ll be together. The two of them, together.)

They talk about everything that matters.

And the talking is nice, Martin thinks. Maybe Peter had been right; maybe they really _hadn’t_ known each other well before, a sort of desperate affection forming between them through trauma, loss, and a lack of other options. Maybe that’s why, even now, when Martin knows that Jon’s favorite color is olive green and that he’d gone through an extensive phase as a child where he was obsessed with the Greek gods, he still can’t say it. Because when he’d been there, in that place that consumed him and sucked out everything that it meant to be Martin Blackwood, he’d only had the words left. None of the feelings. He could only _say_ the love that he’d felt, because he knew it was still there, that it _had_ to be—it’s what he’d done all of it for, right? But he just couldn’t find it. It was lost. And he was lost with it.

Now, saying it just doesn’t feel enough. So they talk about all of the reasons that Martin loves Jon, of all the reasons that Martin falls just a bit more in love with Jon every day, every moment, every stuttered heartbeat. It’s what matters most, anyway.

It’s so easy to say the word ‘love.’ And that’s why every other word counts, Martin thinks.

* * *

They’re getting new statements next week, Basira says. Jon ran out yesterday, but the Institute is a mess and it’s a miracle that Basira can get them anything at all.

A week. It’s too much time and not enough all at once, and somehow, it feels like a deadline. Like once a reminder of what they’d run from comes into the home they’ve deemed as _safe_ , everything will collapse.

Martin’s heart skips in his chest like a broken record, and he barely sleeps that night. He turns his thoughts over and over in his mind, his eyes mapping every inch of Jon as he lies next to him, the hard, tense lines of his face relaxed in that way that only comes in those brief moments of dreamless sleep he sometimes gets. It feels like an icicle, digging into his heart. Jon had risked everything, delving into the Lonely and dragging Martin out of its icy grip, and had warmed him back into a version of himself he vaguely recognized with soft touches and small smiles and those words that Martin never knew he needed but always did. And Martin… Martin can’t do anything to save Jon from this in return.

Daylight comes, filtering in through the window and reflecting off dust motes suspended in the air, and Martin makes a decision. It’s surprisingly easy to make, but Martin’s always been better at _actions._ And this action feels more natural than breathing.

Martin goes into town that day and comes back with shopping bags of vegetables and rice and spices, and that wine he knows Jon likes, and a box.

* * *

It’s a bit strange, Martin thinks, as he drops to one knee in front of Jon, the small black box held in one hand and the other resting against Jon’s face where he’s still sitting at the kitchen table, the wine and dinner completely forgotten. How hard it is to say the word ‘love,’ sometimes. But he looks at Jon, at the way his face has gone completely _soft_ , at the way his hand has come up to rest against Martin’s, their fingers slotting together slightly off-center but still feeling like a perfect fit, at the way his eyes stare into Martin’s with that same burning intensity, and Martin _knows_ that Jon knows. That he loves him. That he always has, and that he’s always been saying it, in those little actions and those wordless declarations that are so much easier for him.

He says it anyway. It’s hard and heavy on his tongue, with the weight of a thousand different terrors and a thousand different joys, and that’s what makes it _true_ , he thinks. It’s hard, and that’s what makes it worth it.

The slim silver band glints on Jon’s finger when he brings his hand to Martin’s face and pulls him in for a soft kiss. “I love you too,” he says, and Martin melts. “Of course I do, Martin.”

Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s neck and kisses him again, like it’s the last time he’ll get to, like he’s drowning, like his world begins and ends with Jon’s mouth. _Of course I do. I love you, Jon._

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> yes martin's love language is acts of service. no i will not be taking criticism.
> 
> also, me? giving jon all of my favourites? it’s more likely than you think.
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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